Ceasefire by Scarlett Black

look at
that?  You better be glad I don’t have your curves, little lady.  Otherwise
that dress would be coming home with me.”
    “It
looks great, doesn’t it?”
    “Honey,
‘great’ ain’t the word for it.  You just be sure that whoever he is, you help
him pick his tongue up off the floor when he sees you.”
    “Oh,
I don’t have a date.  I’m going to work.”
    “In that ?”
    “It’s
part of the job.”
    “You
have to wear something like that to work?  What are you, a model?”
    “No,
I’m a profess—” I caught myself mid-word, realizing that I’d forgotten such a
minor detail.  My job—the fake one—hadn’t come up during the interview with
Gertie because we’d been so focused on her qualifications and Joey’s needs. 
“I’m a professional hostess at La Fleur .  They want us to look our best
for the customers.”
    “That
fancy restaurant downtown?  Well, I can believe it.  I’d never have the money
to eat there.”
    “Oh,
gosh.  I wouldn’t either,” I said, which was a total lie, or would be after
tomorrow.  “I just show the rich people where to sit.”
    With
an impish grin, Gertie said, “I’d like to tell ‘em where they could sit, too,”
and I’m sure she didn’t mean at a table.  Somewhere hotter, and eternal,
probably.
    “I
should be back by ten-thirty at the latest.  And thanks, Gertie.  I really
appreciate you being available on such short notice.”
    The
first inkling of guilt didn’t show up until I closed the front door behind me. 
I was leaving my son, with a stranger, to go sell myself for a night.  What
kind of mother was I?  Did it matter that I was doing what was necessary?  And
it was only a date, for God’s sake.  I couldn’t imagine the level of regret I’d
have if I agreed to something more for a client.
    Necessity
builds the structure, but reality shakes the ground beneath it.
    ***
    With
ten minutes to spare, I walked through the front doors of La Fleur and
stood among the throng of people waiting to be seated.  I’d never been,
obviously, but I’d heard stories of how insane the demand was for a table
there. 
    Contrary
to popular custom, they didn’t take reservations, so it was almost a badge of
honor if you showed up one evening and managed to get seats without waiting for
hours. 
    A
while back, months ago, when I was daydreaming about the possibilities with
Finn, I’d read an article about the place in a local magazine called Flavor . 
In the interview, the owner talked about how the elite, rich members of the
community had created a game between themselves, assigning points based on how
often they were able to get a seat in under an hour.  The less they had to
bribe the host or hostess for a table, the more points they earned.  As of a
few months ago, when the article ran, they were still trying to declare a
winner.
    While
I waited—and considering the fact that I had no idea whom I was waiting for—I
looked around the restaurant, hoping to get a feel for the atmosphere and to
gauge how all the diners were behaving.  Were they quiet?  Did they have
perfect posture?  Did they hold their wine glasses a certain way?  Was I
dressed the same or better?  Were the women eating salads while the men ate
whatever they wanted?
    From
what I saw, the answer was yes to all.  I could tell that I was dressed more
elegantly than most, and there were some wandering eyes on me because of it. 
The only noticeable gap between my falsified stature and their real one was the
fact that my diamonds were quite a few carats smaller.  Many, many carats
less.  My earrings could be used to punctuate the end of a sentence, while most
of theirs could be used as priceless golf balls. 
    I
made a mental note to revisit the jewelry store once I’d been on a few more “dates.” 
If it meant projecting the proper image, it had to be done.  Maybe I could
write it off as a business expense.  (I knew better, but I debated looking